


You can't keep my friends (watch me)

by dishonestdreams



Series: Thanks for the Venom [3]
Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Arguing, Confrontations, False Accusations, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Spencer jumps to the wrong conclusions.  Frank jumps to the right ones.  Maybe.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Brendon Urie
Series: Thanks for the Venom [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642453
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	You can't keep my friends (watch me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/gifts).

> Ficbit in response to MistressKat's prompt _fight_ (which stumped me until I remembered there was a certain scene she had expressed an interest in seeing...)
> 
> Also, I seriously have to stop writing this fic that I'm not writing.

“-him the fuck alone, Iero.”

Brendon freezes halfway around the corner, pressing himself back against the wall he was just rounding. There isn’t supposed to _be_ anyone backstage - the only reason_ he’s_ here is because he put his fucking phone down somewhere and he’s already tried looking everywhere that would make sense – but that’s Spencer’s voice. That’s definitely Spencer, and he sounds _pissed_.

Brendon’s ability to identify Spencer’s range of annoyed tones is surpassed by _no-one_.

“Not sure it’s any of your fucking business, _Smith_,” Frank says, and, right. Brendon should have seen that one coming on account of the whole _Iero_ thing, but Frank’s voice still takes him by surprise. By contrast to Spencer, Frank sounds positively mellow, his words coming out smooth with just his normal edge of bite, and Brendon hesitates. He’s out of their line of sight, he thinks, because he can’t see them yet – it sounds like they’re on the stage and he’s shielded by a bank of speakers. It also sounds like they, or possibly just Spencer, weren’t planning on being overheard, and Brendon is left with a weird feeling like he’s intruding. Like maybe he should just turn back around and leave them to it, go look somewhere else for his phone until they’re finished.

On the other hand, it’s Spencer and Frank. Brendon might be slightly terrified by the idea of leaving his drummer and his…well, whatever-the-fuck-Frank-is to have a conversation unsupervised.

“It’s Brendon,” Spencer says, tightly, and, _well_, that solves that dilemma. It’s totally not snooping if it’s about _him_. “That makes it my business.”

“Really?” Frank drawls, and Brendon hears the familiar thunk-twang of a guitar being set aside. “Last I checked, he was a grown-ass idiot capable of making his own decisions. He wants me to fuck off, he’ll tell me. Don’t need to hear it from you.”

“I’ve seen what you do to him,” Spencer says, flat and ugly, heavy with accusation, and Brendon doesn’t even pause to think about it before he’s scrambling forward to peer around the edge of the speakers, his heart pounding. _Fuck_, Spencer’s _seen_? He thought he’d been more careful than that.

They’re squaring off on the stage, and Spencer’s a thrumming line of tension that Brendon can see even as far away as he is, his mouth drawn in a thin line and his hands curled into fists against his thighs. Frank, by contrast, is a picture of casual nonchalance, his stance easy with his hands shoved in his pockets, but Brendon knows how fast Frank can switch from relaxed stillness to a flurry of violent movement, and he swallows against a suddenly dry throat.

This has the potential to go horribly, catastrophically wrong.

Frank narrows his eyes. “So?”

“So, what if he doesn’t feel like he _can_ tell you to fuck off,” Spencer bites out. “What if he’s too worried about what you’re going to do? You can’t fucking treat him like this.”

Frank’s face goes blank, and for one heart-stopping moment, Brendon thinks he’s going to take a swing at Spencer. Then he barks out a mirthless laugh. “You don’t know your boy at all, do you?”

“Better than you do,” Spencer says, fast and with a clear challenge in his tone. Brendon wraps his fingers around the edge of the speaker, tight enough to for the plastic to bite hard into his skin. It’s not enough to quell the tremor in his hands.

“Yeah,” Frank says, “Not really. You seem to think this is something I do _to_ him, rather than something I do _for_ him.”

Spencer hesitates, just a beat, and Brendon feels shamed heat flood his cheeks. Fuck, this was _not_ how he wanted Spencer to find out about this, but he’s not sure what he can do about it now. He should have manned the fuck up and talked to his band, and he hadn’t. He’s basically screwed.

“Bullshit,” Spencer says, “You’re a fucking liar. Brendon’s not like that.”

Frank smirks, deliberately provoking. “Brendon’s _exactly_ like that,” he says, with a mocking edge that prickles across Brendon’s skin, and he clutches harder at the speaker until his knuckles turn white. “You’d know that if you paid any attention.”

“Fuck you, I do,” Spencer says, and Brendon’s focus snaps to him so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. Spencer’s denial is absolute, but there’s a weird edge to his voice that Brendon doesn’t recognise, and it’s been _years_ since Brendon heard anything new in Spencer’s tone.

But that edge… it’s not condemnation, or disgust, or even acceptance, and Brendon’s not really sure what else he could have expected. So, what the fuck?

Frank narrows his eyes, his head tilting thoughtfully, and the look he gives Spencer is pure, calculated assessment. Brendon holds his breath, even as Spencer tips up his chin, his eyes locking with Frank’s boldly. He can’t take his eyes off them, and he sees the moment when realisation floods across Frank’s face, followed by one of those wicked smirks that Brendon simultaneously loves and hates, because they always promise trouble.

Spencer’s defiant expression wobbles, and Brendon leans more heavily against the speaker, his legs suddenly, inexplicably shaky.

“Oh,” Frank says, and he sounds amused, but his smile twists into something mean that makes Brendon’s stomach ache a little. “I see how it is. You don’t _want_ to know. Fine, what-the-fuck-ever, drummer boy, but don’t come bitching at me because you’re too much of a pussy to give him what he wants.”

Spencer jerks, and stumbles back half a step. “That’s not what this is about,” he says, immediately

“No?” Frank quirks an eyebrow, and Brendon’s breath catches as he watches Frank fucking prowl as he advances on Spencer. “So, you don’t want to hear about the fucking _noises_ he makes when I’ve got him pinned to the bed hard enough that I can feel his bones grind under my hand? You don’t want to know about how he chokes out my name like it’s a fucking prayer when I sink my teeth into those fucking lips of his? You don’t want to think about how pretty he looks when he cries?”

“No,” Spencer says, but it’s less vehement than Brendon would have expected, and his cheeks are high with colour.

Frank leans in close and his smile is vicious. “Now who’s the fucking liar?” he murmurs, quietly enough that Brendon has to strain to hear him. “Don’t worry, Smith, your secret’s safe with me.”

Spencer mouth falls open slightly, and Brendon thinks he’s about to say something, but Spencer’s still looking at Frank, and whatever he sees in Frank’s face must change his mind. He presses his lips tight again, with a shake of his head, and Frank’s smile twists, morphing into something less cruel that’s more laced with satisfaction.

He pats Spencer on the cheek, condescending as fuck, before he turns away, sauntering across the stage like he owns it. “Gotta go,” he throws back over his shoulder. “Places to be, lead singers to fuck up. You know how it is.”

He ducks out of sight, around the corner without a backwards glance, and he’s gone. Spencer doesn’t move, dropping his chin to his chest, and Brendon lets his legs give out, sliding down the side of the speaker until the floor stops him, leaving him sprawled out at the base. His head is buzzing, and he’s kind of weirdly turned on and freaked out at the same time; arousal warring with trepidation in his stomach, and he’s not sure whether he wants to jerk off or throw up.

Maybe both.

“Shit,” Spencer says, quietly to himself but it sounds explosively loud in the silence shrouding the stage, and Brendon jumps, biting viciously on the inside of his cheek to hold back the giddy laugh that threatens to explode out of his chest.

_Couldn’t agree more, Spence_, he thinks, dizzily. _Couldn’t agree more._


End file.
